


interlude: lida

by chrysalizzm



Series: young god [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Dynamics, Fever, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Platonic Relationships, Queerplatonic Relationships, Recovery, They/Them Pronouns for Eret (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma, it's weird but it's because the character they're grieving isn't dead yet, no beta we die like my heart when i saw cottagecore eret, preemptive grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29126502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysalizzm/pseuds/chrysalizzm
Summary: lida, swedish: infinitive form of the verbto suffer. (Or: The seven days Dream was unconscious.)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: young god [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999633
Comments: 39
Kudos: 402





	interlude: lida

**Author's Note:**

> !!TW: blood, panic attacks, contemplation of the death of a loved one, mentions of alcoholism!!
> 
> hello hello! chrys interrupting your scheduled programming for an interlude between you’re human tonight and the sequel. i think sequel will begin around february, now that the plot’s been fully fleshed out. in the meantime, here is the,,,, very longwinded interlude!
> 
> DON’T READ THIS IF YOU HAVEN’T READ YHT IT’S;;; INCREDIBLY SPOILERY
> 
> yall can yell at me on tumblr and twitter @chrysalizzm my asks are open i swear i just don’t know how websites work please stop calling me a boomer

_ i. schlatt _

Schlatt wakes up like surfacing from a deep-dive: one moment it’s dark dark dark, water up his nose, opening his mouth to say something but it all comes out ringing and muffled, and the next he’s gasping and the light isn’t all filmy and he’s clutching someone by the arms because he thinks he’s about to fall over. 

“Schlatt,” the person whose arms he’s hanging onto says, sounding stuffed up, sounding like they’re crying. “Oh my god,  _ Schlatt,” _ and then the person stiffens and there’s a hush that falls over everything like a veil and Schlatt feels an inexplicable needle of warmth, soft, kind, burgeoning up between his ribs, and even though there’s no one there it sounds like someone whose voice is distantly familiar is whispering, silvery,  _ they’re yours forever yours no more hurting that’s enough that’s enough... _

Schlatt’s head is buried in someone’s chest; he can feel his extremities now, has enough strength to pull his head up to avoid goring the person and finds himself staring into Quackity’s tearstained face.

“Q,” he manages, reaches up and gingerly touches Quackity’s face to make sure it’s him, because holy fuck, he hasn’t seen Quackity in two years, didn’t expect to meet him like this, fresh out of some kind of possession-type shit where he could see and hear and feel everything through a dirty filter, and Quackity coughs out a sob and drags Schlatt down into a proper hug that feels like Quackity’s trying to protect Schlatt instead of the other way around, his arms a shield, and they rock back and forth for a moment, speechless in their relief.

Far away, someone starts to scream.

It’s jarring in its suddenness and palpable agony, and Schlatt accidentally bumps Quackity’s chin trying to extricate himself from his grip. He overcompensates and staggers, whipping his head around to locate the source of the sound, and then Tubbo, pale and huddled against the fucking death trap Schlatt locked him in, is gasping and leaping off the stage into the waterfalls Fundy built into the podium, and Quackity is grabbing Schlatt’s arm to follow, and Schlatt catches a glimpse of the huddle quickly forming toward the back of the rows of seats and he feels his heart skip several beats.

Dream is on the ground, bright green against the dull grey walkway, convulsing; Tommy, of all people, is the one knelt beside him. He has Dream by the arms, is clearly trying to keep the **_young god_** _(shut up)_ from clawing at himself, from hurting himself more than he already has. 

“Come  _ on, _ ” he barks at the people approaching, his sharp tone belying the blatant terror on his face. Quackity drops Schlatt’s arm once they’re close, runs at Karl with his cloud of brown hair and loudly patterned hoodie; Schlatt has eyes only for Dream  _ (he saved me) _ as George drops to his knees beside him, takes him from Tommy’s shaking hands; when Dream breaks off into whimpers, George, movements frantic, pulls Dream halfway up, cards his fingers through Dream’s hair, winces. 

“What is it?” demands Sapnap, kneeling beside George; he passes his hand over Dream’s face and hisses as he pulls away. “Fuck me - why’s he burning up?!”

Schlatt almost opens his traitor mouth, snaps it closed when he gets a good look at the people surrounding him. None of them are looking at him - for good reason, Schlatt thinks bitterly - and they’re all hollow-eyed, white from fear or red from fury, and something sibilant at the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like his own voice hisses,  _ you did this to them.  _

Karl starts to cry softly, sinking into a crouch and laying his hand on Dream’s shaking shoulder; Sam slams his trident’s prongs into the ground with a violent  _ crack _ and buries his face in his hands. Next to him, Ant begins to mutter a breathless prayer to the elders. Bad joins him, the two bowing their heads to their interlaced fingers, quick, quiet, desperate. 

Dream chokes on another cry. George whispers, “Oh god oh god oh god.”

_ You did this. _

_ ii. george _

George doesn’t argue when Techno nudges him aside and sweeps Dream into his arms; out of all of them, Techno’s easily the strongest physically. Still, after a month or so of thrusting every hurt he feels to the dusty corners of his head, the sight of his best friend dangling limply from Techno’s arms stings far more than it has any right to. 

More than half of the crowd has peeled off to run and find potions; George has stayed with Dream partly for moral support and partly because he can’t get the image of Dream readjusting his sunglasses with that wan, beatific smile out of his brain. How unsteadily he stumbled from one person to another, bestowing peace of mind at the cost of himself; the instant Dream went down, screaming, emblazoned under George’s eyelids. 

“White House, you said?” grunts Techno, shifting Dream gingerly as he jogs. Honestly, Dream’s rival-in-name-only could probably outrun George and the few others who’ve stayed with, but he’s clearly trying to keep pace with them, and it prods George into speeding up as he replies, panting, “Yes - it’s safe there - now that Schlatt - ”

“ - is back to himself, right, and there’s plenty of escape routes if things go south. Quick thinkin’,” says Techno appreciatively. His eyes flicker up to the quartz castle at the crest of the hill, five chunks away to the west. “You fine if I get there before you?”

“That would be great,” says George, and watches as Techno hikes Dream up a little higher in his arms (and if seeing Dream’s head loll on his neck doesn’t feel like a physical blow) and enters a dead sprint. He’s gone in half a minute. 

George glances around at his companions once Techno has left his view. It’s just Ponk - mostly out of potions - and Callahan - freshly returned from wherever he’d escaped to and thus unable to offer any resources. George tries not to feel bitterness toward Callahan, he  _ does _ , but looking at him - proud, unbroken, determined - it’s hard not to feel just a little bit of resentment. 

“We should call Lyss,” says Ponk eventually, breaking the tense silence. “Do you think she’d come back?”

Callahan’s hands tremble as he signs rapidly,  _ She would. It’s Dream. We all would if we were in her place.  _

The moments as Dream collapsed into himself play before George’s eyes again, like a wood house on fire, and it’s because of the edge it sets him on that he snaps at Callahan, far more sharply than intended, “Would you, Callahan? Why  _ did _ you come back, by the way?”

He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, and Callahan notices his wince, because he visibly reins himself back in before signing with forced evenness,  _ Because I got news about the festival. The wars. Dream loves this world. _ A pause, then, more abashed,  _ Dream loves  _ us _. For the kind of rumors that there were coming through the grapevine... it didn’t feel right. Lyss... you know Lyss. She’s more patient. But she’d come back for this. _

And George does know Alyssa. He knows Callahan, too - Alyssa fierce and Callahan fiercer, both vehement in their personalities, Callahan quicker to action and Alyssa the one to wait and watch. They’re best friends the way the flint loves the steel, and George loves them both to death, but no one ever said you had to like your family to love them, and even with Callahan’s timely return and the open warmth in Dream’s face when Callahan had taken his face in his hands, all George can feel is resentment.

“Good for her,” he bites out. He stops running, too; as much as Dream’s screaming is ringing in his ears, if he doesn’t address this wholeheartedly now, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “And good for you, too, Callahan, for showing up in the nick of time! I mean, at least you came back because something seemed wrong, right?”

Callahan halts and turns, and his face is thunderous.  _ What are you trying to say, George? _ He demands, giving up any pretense of calm. 

Ponk’s eyes are bouncing back and forth between them, and he says nervously, “Guys...”

On any other day, in any other circumstance, George probably would’ve been in Ponk’s shoes. He’s almost always the one on the sidelines when people are fighting and he prefers it that way; people say things they regret when they’re caught up in the heat of the argument. They do things they know they shouldn’t. After all, look at the L’Manberg Independence War.

But Dream’s tears haven’t dried on George’s shirt, and George hates himself for it.

“Callahan, why didn’t you  _ stay?” _ he bursts out, stalking forward. “The rest of us stayed! Dream was falling apart and you couldn’t even be there for him? You grew up together - you’re one of his admins!”

You  _ are, too! _ Callahan shoves George away, signs so lightning-fast in his fury George can barely tell the words apart for how they blur together.  _ We  _ all _ grew up together, asshole! You’re just as responsible! I left because it wasn’t safe. I know Dream made this place to be our haven, but it wasn’t anymore.  _ Callahan tosses his head and signs, slower, more deliberate,  _ I know I ran away. But at least I have an excuse for not being there for Dream. All of you were right here with him _ .  _ Does he seem fine to you? _

George recoils, the words like a physical blow, because that’s the heart of it, isn’t it - the resentment, the acid under his tongue, all of it’s for Callahan and Alyssa and himself and everyone on the Dream SMP, because all of them failed. George can remember with perfect clarity the look on Dream’s face as he leeched George’s depressive fog away from him - he may as well have watched munching popcorn as his best friend dug a grave for himself.

His breath hitches. 

“Do you think,” he says, feeling suddenly and unbearably small, “that Dream is going to make it?”

It’s a morbid question. He doesn’t know why he asks. He can see Ponk blanch in his peripheral vision, but his focus is on Callahan, whose jaw clenches, who curls his hands into fists before letting them fall loose again.

_ Come on, _ he signs, not making eye contact, and sets off for the White House. Ponk hesitates, opens his mouth. Ultimately he only says, “We should go,” and trots after Callahan. 

George brings a hand to his face and tries not to cry.

_ iii. tubbo _

It occurs to Tubbo dimly that he should probably be more uncomfortable with this. It’s been barely five hours since the festival fiasco and the night is coming on black and misty and earlier when he’d wedged himself into the crowd in Dream’s room he’d had a panic attack and was escorted out by Eret and Niki. Every time he gets boxed in somewhere his breath withers in his chest and all he can see is yellow concrete, yellow lanterns, yellow eyes with neat rectangular pupils - 

There’s pressure on his arm. Tubbo startles and looks over first at the shoulder pressed firmly to his, then at the look of careful concentration on Tommy’s bruised, dirty face.

“Sorry,” Tubbo says, sheepish. “I keep doing that.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” says Tommy immediately. “You shouldn’t have to be sorry. It’s not something to be sorry for.”

Tubbo still nudges Tommy in apology and turns his gaze once again to Man - L’Man - their country. He doesn’t know what they’ll call it now, doesn’t know what the future has in store for the place that indirectly brought so much pain to so many people. It looks innocent enough, lying still and silent under the low-hanging clouds blanketing the sky, not even a single spire of moonlight squeezing past them; no one would think that it burned more times than a home should ever burned and saw more blood and tears spilt than a country should be built on. 

Tubbo tangles his legs with Tommy’s, like they did when they were younger and sitting cramped in Phil’s singular sofa, sandwiched in by two older brothers and a father all vying for a spot on the striped, lumpy thing. It’s comforting and familiar, even if his best friend, scraped-up and contemplative, is more distant than expected. Tubbo supposes he’s changed, too; he feels sharper, less like a bumbling child and more like someone who knows the playing field. Sharper. They’ve both graduated from their relative innocence in their own ways.

“What,” says Tommy suddenly, frowning at the ugly black-and-orange flag fluttering in the faint rain, “d’you think’s gonna happen to L’Manberg?”

Tubbo hums, studies the bandages someone wrapped around Tommy’s fingers. “It probably depends on what Schlatt and Wilbur decide,” he says slowly. “They’ve woken up now, I think. At least, Schlatt looked...” Clearer. Bewildered. He’d hugged Quackity like his life depended on it, and there was misery in his eyes when he’d made eye contact with Tubbo. “...better. Everyone will see reason.”

“And what if Dream dies?”

Tubbo pauses. Eyes Tommy with a bit of surprise. “...I don’t... I hope he doesn’t.”

“Tubbo, hoping won’t be enough for him.” Tommy’s gritting his teeth in spite of the impressive bruise on his cheek. “You saw how the potions weren’t working. If the world owner - creator - goes down - ” he cuts himself off.

Tubbo thinks it’s less about the fate of the Dream SMP, and more about the fate of the person they’ve grown fond of. The person they call a friend.

“L’Manberg will live on,” he finally settles on saying. He winds his arm around Tommy in a half-hug and declares, as reassuringly as he can, “Just because something doesn’t exist anymore doesn’t mean it never existed in the first place.”

Tommy laughs, suspiciously watery. “I hope,” he mumbles, “Dream doesn’t die, either.”

They sit on the bench in the whispery, wet mist as night sinks like a shroud over their half-dead country, and Tubbo says, “I know.”

_ iv. bad _

Bad is just nodding off when someone collapses into the seat opposite him, folds their arms, and plants their head down onto them. 

“They’re asleep now,” Sam sighs into the table, and Bad blinks blearily at his friend, uncomprehending.

“He means Sapnap and George,” Ant clarifies, sliding onto the bench beside Sam. He rubs the back of his neck. “They wouldn’t, um. They’re still with Dream.”

The mention of Dream brings the whole situation back into stinging clarity, and Bad finds himself wincing. The past few hours were a blur of chaos, of terror, of tears; Bad can vaguely recall demanding a healing potion over a regen, tipping Dream’s head so he wouldn’t choke in his unconsciousness, waiting anxiously for any signs of life, scalding himself on Dream’s skin. He’d fretted and ultimately left Dream with a cold compress in a desperate and somewhat meaningless attempt to bring the fever down while he ransacked Tubbo’s library for any potentially useful information, but all he really got were pages upon pages of gradiose legends and dusty history, and now Bad is trying not to think about the first-degree burn on the back of his hand.

Skeppy sets down the tome he was scouring for the sake of solidarity and yawns, stretches his hands, says, “That’s good, I guess. They need the rest.”

“We all do,” Sam says, muffled into the tabletop. He heaves his head up after a moment and knocks the gas mask aside as he rubs his face and adds wearily, “You guys should head into the wing where they keep the beds. There’s a ton of unused rooms in the west part of the White House.”

Bad frowns at him. “You should go too, Sam,” he chides, placing his unburned hand on Sam’s arm. “You look tired.”

Sam huffs a wry laugh that sounds anything but happy. “I don’t think I could go to sleep even if I went,” he admits. A beat, then, hoarse, “I keep thinking I’ll close my eyes just a second and then I’m gonna wake up and someone’s gonna tell me he’s...”

Strained silence follows Sam’s hushed confession. Bad bites his lip, involuntary; now that Sam’s said it, the image makes itself at home in Bad’s brain, taunting him - Dream cold and grey against the plain red sheets, a mockery of how effervescent he was in life. All it would take is a second, two degrees too high, and - 

“Okay,” he says, louder and more forcefully than intended as he firmly shuts down that line of thought; all eyes snap to him as he claps his own book closed and clears his throat. “I think we should address the elephant in the room.”

“What, the possibility of Dream dying?” asks Skeppy, and his tone is just this side of sharp, almost mean, but Bad knows his best friend, knows that Skeppy lashes out with words instead of fists, and he takes it in stride.

“No, about Badlands.”

For a moment, there is pensive quiet. 

Ant, as always, is the earliest to react. “We were in the right,” he says decisively, sits straight up with his hands planted in front of him, his eyes a blazing blue. In the fuzzy candlelight, he looks even more catlike than usual, poised, analytical. “Between an empty country and the crapshoot that was Manberg? We chose right.”

“Mm.” Sam half-shrugs, drops his head back down to the table. Muffled, dull, he says, “I think we made a reasonable decision given the information available. And I probably would’ve stayed out of all this anyway, you know? I wasn’t part of the whole founding L’Manberg versus Dream war or anything like that. None of us were.”

“Yeah, what Ant and Sam said.” Skeppy reaches over to pluck Bad’s reading glasses from his nose, smirks briefly at the knee-jerk squawk of outrage he surprises from Bad, and wipes the lenses with the hem of his sweatshirt with a thoughtful, “It all seems so... so  _ dumb _ . All of this. Like, how far all of us let it go. Even calling it war.”

“Letting Dream get hurt.”

“Letting  _ everyone _ get hurt,” corrects Bad, terse, because it’s true - there’s a reason Dream reached out to everyone on his way to soothe hurts, and it’s got nothing to do with equal distribution. Quieter, “And then letting Dream take all of it from us.”

Sam covers his face with hands and his next breath comes out shaky. “Oh god,” he says unsteadily. 

“Sam?” asks Bad, concerned by the sudden shudder. Reaches out to put his hand on one of Sam’s. “You okay?”

“It’s not about the decisions we’ve made, it’s - we were there the entire time, and he - ” Sam makes a wounded noise, and it could’ve been an arrow for how it pierces Bad’s heart, “ _ god _ , what are we gonna do?” He reaches up blindly and takes Bad’s hand, and the desperation with which he clutches it makes tears, or maybe bile, climb up Bad’s throat.

“Bad,” says Sam, his voice half a plea, “that’s one of the  _ kids. _ What’re we gonna do?”

_ v. techno _

Chat’s louder than usual tonight.

Techno paces the length of the room he chose blindly, arms crossed, as the voices unanimously hiss  _ “Blood for the blood god, blood for the blood god,” _ a cacophony ringing in his head, impossible to block out. He’s gotten used to it - sure, he wasn’t born with it, but he and his family have learnt to deal with them - and for the most part, Chat tends to leave well enough alone, only really coming when called.

Today, though - the festival - the fireworks - 

_ “Blood for the blood god, Technoblade never dies, blood for the blood god - ” _

Techno whirls and nearly punches the wall sheerly out of frustration, barely restrains himself from it when he remembers there are people probably trying to sleep on either side. On the left are Callahan and the newly-arrived Alyssa, who went ashen when she saw what was happening, her arms filled with dusty potions that weren’t gonna do a lick of good; on the right are Tommy, who didn’t sleep the first night and instead sat outside on the bench with the moon hung bright against him, and - 

_ “Blood,”  _ Chat croons, and Techno grumbles back, “Shut up.” The room feels too stuffy now, so he makes the executive decision to just take a walk or something, brood off Chat’s bloodthirst because it works sometimes, and he’s got his hand to the door handle when a floorboard nearby creaks.

Techno freezes, angles his ears. It’s coming from the room on the right, and as Techno listens, the light, unobtrusive tread of someone accustomed to remaining unseen pads down the hallway, up the flight of stairs, and presumably outside onto the balcony on the landing between the first and second floors. 

Maybe it’s plain curiosity, or maybe it’s Chat hissing at him to  _ “Follow! Follow them! Let’s go look let’s go look!”  _ Either way, Techno eases his own door open, shoots a glance up and down the empty hall, and ambles up onto the balcony cautiously, his cloak trailing after him, sullenly crimson, like the sharp streak of blood on Dream’s chin from biting his lip til it split earlier.

The moon’s bright again tonight, if a sliver smaller than yesterday, but even if it weren’t, Techno would have to be blind not to recognize the boy staring up at the cloudless night sky. He saw him yesterday, after all, crammed up into the corners of the box on the podium, shrinking away from the tip of the rocket launcher, eyes round but lacking the sheen of betrayed surprise - 

“Hi, Techno,” says Tubbo absently, and Techno isn’t one to flinch away from the consequences of his actions, but it’s a near thing.

He clears his throat, strides closer but maintains a fair distance of five blocks or so between him and his younger brother with his usual monotone “Hey, Tubbo.” He’s not good at talking emotions, not like Wilbur - when they were all younger and nightmares were more common, Will was always the one who took care of it, cooing over his younger siblings and always knowing whether they needed a story or a song or just a hand that smoothed their hair down as they fell back asleep - but he feels enough to know he has to try. “Can’t sleep?”

Tubbo leans onto the balustrade, gaze still trained on the abandoned festival grounds chunks away, with its listless flags and paper decorations sagging into the streets. Despite having only been twenty-four hours or so it looks inexplicably decrepit, as though deserted for years, and the feeling of vague hollowness that wells up in Techno’s gut is very unwelcome, so he tears his attention away from it in time to catch Tubbo blinking, tilting his head back to squint at the sky, and say, “Mm. Thinking about things.”

“What things?” prompts Techno, not as gently nor as eloquently as he’d like, but Tubbo doesn’t take notice of how stilted he is; he shifts, rubs his hands over his arms, shivers. It’s then that Techno realizes how cold it is outside: nothing like the constant, pervasive cold of the Antarctic Empire but a fair chill, given it’s closer to winter than it is autumn now. On impulse, he undoes the clasp of his cloak and swiftly closes the gap between him and his brother to drape the cloak over his shoulders, like he’s done hundreds of times. 

The cape just barely touches Tubbo’s back and he  _ jumps _ away, nearly flips over the balustrade in his haste, hands held out to ward Techno away, his mouth bent into a vicious snarl, every line of his body coiled like a spring. For a moment Techno can see, as though in double, a younger Tubbo in the same pose, grinning as Techno taught him and Tommy how to get out of a tight spot using their smaller sizes to their advantage, sunlight on his face, bright and unscarred.

They stare at one another, frozen, Tubbo hunched, Techno reaching out, the brilliant fur-trimmed cloak that has become a staple of Techno’s brand held out between them like an olive branch, or maybe a gauntlet. Techno’s not sure.

In the end, it’s Tubbo who makes the distinction for him. He relaxes, bit by bit, and gingerly ducks under Techno’s arm to wrap the cloak around his neck. He steps away, but not enough to put a noticeable distance between them, and he murmurs, “Thanks, Techno.”

“...No problem.” Techno resists the urge to adjust the cape where it sits crookedly on Tubbo’s shoulders and opts instead to prompt, “So, uh. What things were you, uh... thinkin’ about?”

“Oh - well. L’Manberg, mostly,” says Tubbo, just this side of too tired to really sound chipper, but getting pretty darn close. “Dream. The, er...” His eyes flicker to Techno; he says, deceptively mild, “The festival.”

Techno closes his eyes. “Right. Yeah.”

Tubbo faces away again, down toward the barren festival grounds. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says. Lower, “I get it. I really do.”

If that doesn’t feel like an arrow straight to the heart. “Tubbo, I...” Shame clogs Techno’s throat, but he coughs again to cover for the way his words wither in his mouth and manages to say, “You... I’m - I’m sorry, Tubbo, for givin’ in like that. I don’t know why I - I just gave up. Just gave up on your life so easily. I don’t... I shouldn’t have. It’s messed up, and you deserve... you deserve so much better. You shouldn’t just forgive me like that. ‘M sorry.”

And there are plenty of things Techno could say, that Techno never will say. That the greatest mercy he could offer in that moment was a quick, painless death, and that’s the greatest mercy he’s ever been able to offer anyone. That he doesn’t know how to help without being able to hurt. That there are pains he cannot ease, because his hands are always the ones afflicting. Techno’s no Phil, and Techno’s no Wilbur; his strength, it seems, has always laid in his ability to lay countries to waste. 

Tubbo’s expression, flat and uninvolved, comes alive just a tad; he softens, tugs the cloak more snugly around himself, and says, sounding a little more like himself, “Okay. I  _ do  _ forgive you, but if it makes you feel better, we can say I don’t.”

It startles a laugh out of Techno, and even if he doesn’t lean over to give Tubbo’s hair a ruffle, Tubbo could probably read it in his face. “Nerd.” He pauses, then adds awkwardly, “I mean it. I’m sorry. You don’t have to - to act like you’re alright with what happened.”

“Okay,” says Tubbo agreeably. Without even missing a beat, he continues, “I’m not really, I actually feel a bit fucked up, and I think I’ll go back to my room and ask Tommy for a hug, if that’s fine?”

“No need to ask permission from me.” Techno shifts aside, and watches Tubbo wander back inside, down the stairs.

Dimly, he realizes Tubbo took his cloak with him.

Even dimmer, he realizes he doesn’t mind.

_ “Blood,” _ says Chat, far too smugly,  _ “for the blood god.” _

_ vi. tommy _

Tommy enters Dream’s room and straight into fucking ground zero.

People are running around and shouting and at least two are crying and someone is in the corner having a fucking mental breakdown, and as soon as the person hovering over Dream turns and catches sight of Tommy - Bad, with his hood tucked back and glasses pushed high on his nose, more human than anything demonic in appearance thanks to it - he grits his teeth and points at something beside the doorway and waves his hand impatiently.

“Ice water,” says Niki breathlessly from where she was dunking something in a bucket by the doorway, and Tommy jumps away but Niki pays him no mind, already darting back over with the bucket in one hand and the dripping cloth in her other, dropping the latter into Bad’s outstretched hand and joining him in leaning worriedly over Dream and fully blocking him from Tommy’s view.

“This is - what is even going on?” says Tubbo confusedly, his hand like a vice on Tommy’s arm. Tommy graciously doesn’t call him out on it, even if he’s cutting off the circulation to his fingers, because he’s wondering the same thing.

Scanning the room, the only one not currently occupied with either handing Bad and Niki potions and supplies or clinging to one another whilst sobbing is Eret, who’s staring blankly down at their hands by the windows, and some tiny, childish part of Tommy dies a little inside at the thought of having to voluntarily interact with the traitor of L’Manberg, but most of him slaps that part upside the head and tells it frankly to get off its high horse, so.

“Eret,” Tommy bellows across, “what the hell’s this?!”

Tubbo shoots Tommy a look of surprise, but Tommy ignores it in favor of watching Eret startle. They glance up, manage a weak wave of greeting, and say, “Morning, Tommy. Morning, Tubbo. His... Dream’s temperature apparently jumped even higher than it already was... somehow. We’re... people are panicking.”

“No shit,” says Tommy, dry as a desert, as he steps aside to let a shaking Sam be led out by Ponk and Ant.

“There’s nowhere for his fever to go other than down,” says Tubbo, puzzled, barely audible over the tumult. “Wasn’t it, like, a hundred and twenty or something yesterday?” 

Eret smiles wanly and says, “It’s a hundred and twenty-eight now,” which, okay, holy fuck, what the  _ fuck _ .

“These aren’t working,” Niki cuts in, loud, frustration in her voice. “Healing and regen are both useless - I don’t understand.”

“Me neither. I haven’t read about anything like this anywhere,” says Bad, sounding ominously close to the verge of tears. “It’s not... I don’t know what to do, what should we do...”

“Quit wastin’ potions, they’re not gonna work,” comes a familiar deadpan drawl from behind Tommy, and Tommy jumps aside on instinct in time to let Techno come sweeping in, pink and white and stupidly intimidating even with his hair down and lacking his brilliant cloak. (Tubbo mutters “Oops,” which Tommy’ll ask about later, but now’s probably not the time.)

Bad leans back, wipes sweat from his brow, distracted by Techno’s words. “What do you mean, they’re not gonna work?” he demands without any real heat, the potion bottle in his hand half-empty; Tommy can make out the vivid fuchsia of a healing, probably a II. “It’s - if it’s just a fever - ”

“God, you lot are ridiculous.”

All the hairs on the back of Tommy’s neck rise, and he doesn’t miss the way Techno sidles closer to block Tommy and Tubbo, who shrinks back on his own, from the tall, haggard figure that strides in, hair half-obscured by his beanie, his old jacket nowhere to be found, dressed in a garishly cheery lemon yellow jumper and what looks to be pajama pants a size too big. All movement stops, and for a moment, it’s silent save the tremulous sound of Dream’s labored breathing and the shuffle of fabric.

“Will,” says Niki warily, and Wilbur’s flippant expression softens in a way that Tommy hasn’t seen in - in months, actually, and judging by Tubbo’s sharp intake of breath, he hasn’t, either.

“Hi, Niki,” he says gently, then snaps right back to the task at hand. “Right. Someone fill me in, because I legitimately cannot remember a single damn thing since election night except for pain and rage, but I’ve been told Dream’s a minor god?”

“I - yes,” says Bad, tripping over his words, “but why - ”

Techno moves away from Tommy and Tubbo now to join their eldest brother’s side, and when he speaks, he sounds nothing but matter-of-fact. “It’s not just a fever. He clearly overstretched himself - kinda cringe, if you ask me - ”

“Zero askers. Absolutely none.”

“ - so he’s definitely out for a while. In my highly professional opinion, I don’t think he’ll die...” Several discreet sighs of relief sound throughout the room, though Tommy finds his grip on Tubbo’s hand tightening and Tubbo squeezing back, notices Bad and Niki’s expressions don’t slip out of their severity, “...but I’m not a professional. Wilbur?”

Wilbur starts, then squares his shoulders. “Phil’s our dad, as all of you probably know,” he announces firmly, gesturing to himself and Techno, nodding to Tubbo and Tommy chilling in the doorway, “so at this point, we’re the closest you’ll get to professionals, unless you get Phil in here. Which I recommend, by the way, so if there are any admins or owners in here, I’d get on that.”

Bad’s lips thin, and he shoots a look at George and Sapnap, who were the two having mental breakdowns off to the side, out of the way of the relative medical professionals. George is the one to gulp and nod and herd Sapnap out of the room. “Get Cal too,” Bad calls after them, and the corners of George’s eyes tighten, but he nods.

Tubbo pipes up with a chirp of “He’s not a normal minor god, though, I don’t think. With the whole... emotion sponge thing he does, and all.” Tommy swallows the urge to burst out laughing, because it’s really not the time.

“Emotion sponge?” echoes Wilbur in confusion. 

“The reason most of us can sit in a room and make eye contact with one another,” Techno explains evenly, “is because Dream has somethin’ that minor gods don’t have. Some kinda ability to take hurts into himself, or somethin’ along that line. I only really experienced it firsthand at the festival.”

Will pauses, and something shifts subtly in his expression when he says, softly, “Oh.” Tommy can’t bear to see the look on his brother’s face, so he jumps in with a sharp, “What Tubbo means is, because he’s not a normal minor god either, we’ve got to improvise. If the potions aren’t working, fucking stop trying.”

“Language.”

_ “Stop,” _ Tommy repeats emphatically. “Go read a fucking... book, or something. Bring down his temperature the - the normal way. The most basic way you can. That’ll probably do  _ something, _ won’t it?”

People are openly staring at Tommy by that point, and it’s not in annoyance or with poorly-disguised attempts not to laugh, which makes Tommy’s ears burn, so he snaps, “Fuck off, go on, not normal means he might also be able to die, you know,” then immediately regrets saying it because that’s a little too true and a tad too harsh of a way to say it, but Eret is breezing past him, calling over their shoulder, “I’ll get you more water,” and Niki and Bad hunch closer together to discuss something called a fucking ice bath, which sounds like torture, and Techno meanders out again because he’s a dramatic arse and already made his dramatic entrance so he doesn’t need a dramatic exit, and Will’s looking at Tommy and Tubbo.

“Hey,” he says weakly.

Tommy’s probably broken Tubbo’s fingers at this point for how hard he’s gripping them, though, to be fair, Tubbo’s probably done the same to Tommy’s fingers. “...What’s up,” he replies warily.

“I think we should talk.”

“Not a bad idea,” hedges Tubbo.

“...I don’t remember a lot.”

And that shouldn’t be as much of a relief as it is, to know your older brother doesn’t remember his cruelties, but, well. Trauma, and all that. “That’s fine,” Tommy says. Tubbo squeezes his hand. “We should talk. All of us.”

Wilbur’s face lights up at that, at the second chance, and that’s really all Tommy needs to feel like being nice was probably the right choice. Wilbur stops, then winces, then says, “Preferably before Phil gets here.”

“Oh, yeah,  _ definitely _ before Phil gets here.”

_ vii. quackity _

“Q. Hey, Quackity - Q, come back. Can you - can you tell me, uh, five things you can see?”

“...I... Five...”

“Five things, yeah. Just anythin’ you can see.”

“...That I... You. And, um... the - the walls. The walls?”

“‘s fine, you’re fine. Keep goin’.”

“...Bookcase, in th’ corner. ...Fucking Sun Tzu?”

“Of course  _ that’s _ what you pick up on. Was that five? Fuck it. Four things you can touch.”

“You fucking suck at this, Schlatt - oh fuck - ”

_ “Whoa _ , hey, breathe breathe breathe. Four things you can touch, Q.”

“...Uh... shit, um... th’ couch cushions, an’... sorry, sorry, one sec, I just need one sec - ”

“Take your time, man, just chill. ...Lil’ better? Three more okay?”

“...My - my sleeves. The floor. ...Your arm or something.”

“Cool. Three things you can hear.”

“I feel fine now.”

“Ehh... No, y’don’t. Indulge me. Three things you can hear.”

“Your annoying-ass voice.”

“No need to get violent.”

“Pfft - the wind, and somebody making a  _ fuck ton of noise upstairs, dickhead!” _

_ “...Sorry!” _

“Aw fuck, that was Fundy, I feel bad now. He’s been going  _ through _ it.”

“...Ah. Yeah, he, uh.”

“Schlatt - uh. He - I - um...”

“...Sorry. Made it awkward. Two things you can smell?”

“Something baking. I feel like we shouldn’t be sorta avoiding this conversation? Like, shouldn’t we talk about the whole... y’know...  _ possession _ thing?”

“Nah. Two things, Q.”

“Schlatt, I  _ really _ think we should talk about it.”

“...What is there to say, Q? It’s all... I hurt you. All of you. A lot. And it sure as shit felt like it was me when I was doin’ it. Look at this, look at what I did to you - I tell you to lay off me and you start havin’ a panic attack. ‘S not your fault. What the hell can I do about this?”

“Schlatt.”

“Sorry. Sorry, I keep makin’ this... two things you can smell?”

“Something baking, and the rain, kinda. Schlatt, dude, it’s not your fault. It’s whatever the fuck was haunting you. Like, yeah, sometimes I get jumpy, I just wanted to help and you snapped at me - ”

“Sorry - ”

“ - but, like, it’s - okay, I’m not gonna say you just gotta let it go, ‘cause that’s shit advice, but try to just, like... separate yourself from that. It’s not - the stuff that happened isn’t yours to own. Y’know?”

“...Eh. It still feels like a cop-out.”

“I guess.”

“Things aren’t that black and white, Q. That’s just like - just finding a scapegoat because it’s easier to do than hold a buncha people accountable for a lot of different reasons.”

“I mean, I feel like I deserve just a bit of having the easy way out.”

“Oh yeah, for sure.”

“...”

“Shit, I forgot. One thing you can taste.”

“Dude, are you kidding?”

“It’s not that hard, just finish the exercise, it’s good for you.”

“You fucking sound like Bad. Now  _ he’d _ tell me to eat broccoli before getting dessert or some shit like that. Uh...”

“...”

“...”

“...Q...”

“...uh. Salt.”

“...This is kinda upsetting.”

“...’S messed up, Schlatt. This whole thing. All of us.”

“We’re so fucked, Q.”

“Yeah, we really are.”

_ viii. eret _

“...Wha...”

Eret  _ jumps _ . Their pulse skip several beats at the hoarse mumble and their book slips from their fingers and they don’t even hear it hit the floor as they scramble to the bedside, wedging their way between a shaking Purpled and a fully hyperventilating Sapnap. 

“Dream?” they ask, hushed, hurried, reaching out. “Dream, are you - ”

Dream turns his head ever so slightly, and Eret catches the low sheen of his eyes, glowstone-bright with fever, as he says, incomprehensible, “Wh... Where... Where’m I...” 

George is the one to grab Eret’s wrist and tug it away from making contact with Dream’s face, which is probably a good call, because Eret could feel the heat rising off of his skin like stone bricks on a hot day, but even so, they can’t help the bitterness that wels up on their tongue. He’s not the only person that’s been hovering over Dream day and night, praying for a sign that he’ll make it. 

George leans close to Dream, wringing his hands as though unsure where to place them. “Dream, can you hear me? Do you remember anything?” 

Dream shifts again and Eret winces involuntarily. He looks really, really bad; his hair is lank against the pillow and what little of his face is visible under the mask is flushed with fever. His breathing whistles, as though caught, tattered, fluttering, in his chest, and when he raises his hand to lay it against his own forehead, his arm shakes. 

“...George...” he manages, sounding faint, through a fog of vague bewilderment. Eret sucks in a sharp breath at the frailty of his voice, and Purpled latches onto their arm, mostly out of what seems to be reflex. Dream’s breath stutters out into an exhale. “...George? ...’S that you...”

“It’s me,” says George immediately, words catching. Reaches out, hesitates, then takes Dream’s hand and winds his fingers through Dream’s, wincing. Sapnap makes a sound of deterrence, but flattens his own palm out over Dream’s other hand unflinchingly. Eret feels their heart climb up into their throat, beginning to burn, and they step back, away from Dream’s bedside, taking Purpled with them.

Dream pauses, weighs Sapnap’s hand in his. “...Pandas?” he murmurs, soft, and Sapnap  _ sobs _ . 

“It’s me, it’s me, it’s me,” he whimpers into Dream’s knuckles, stumbling over his own words. “Dream, how do you feel - are you okay? Are you - Dream, please - ”

Purpled shrinks into the doorframe, caught somewhere between secondhand heartache and discomfort, chewing on his thumbnail absentmindedly as his gaze ricochets from Dream, faint and fluttering, to Sapnap and George, desperately trying to coax him into some semblance of awareness, to Eret. Eret crosses their arms, twists the sleeves of their sweater in their hands, listens with an unshakeable sense of foreboding as George slips from controlled concern to panic, as Dream’s fragmented sentences begin to ebb. 

“Dream,” George hisses frantically, rubbing his thumb gingerly over Dream’s face even as his hand goes the shade of gradual red of an oncoming burn, “don’t go back to sleep, okay? We’ll get Bad - ” he glances imploringly in Eret and Purpled’s direction, and Purpled bolts, “ - and Sam and Ponk’ll come too - and Alyssa and Callahan have come back! You should see them...” 

Dream sighs, a long, labored sound that peters out into a rasp. “...You’re all...” he whispers, and Eret doesn’t have to see Dream to know he sinks back into unconsciousness.

George makes a soft, shattered sound, and bows his head onto Dream’s shuddering chest. 

Eret can’t tear their eyes away from Dream’s wan face. It’s the first time, they realize dimly, that the thought has occurred to them:

Dream might not make it out of this one alive.

_ ix. niki _

It’s half-evening and half-night proper, the lanterns yellowy down the halls like the yolk of an egg. Niki steps out of Eret’s room from talking them down from what nearly culminated in an anxiety attack and runs straight into Fundy and Jack, both of whom look... worse for wear, Fundy a bit more than Jack. His fur’s stuck up every which way and the creases in his jacket tell her in an instant he’s definitely been sleeping in them. Jack, for his part, has such huge bags under his eyes that even the two-toned sunglasses that he wears even indoors can’t obscure them. 

“Okay,” she says immediately. “Both of you are going to sit down, and we are having a chat.”

“Right away, Miss Nihachu,” says Jack without missing a beat, spinning around and walking back toward the row of chairs set up at the end of the hallway, and even though she’s stressed to hell and back, it’s enough to make Niki chuckle. Fundy’s mouth twitches up into a half-smile as he follows, and they all collapse into the chairs and sigh in unison.

“Rough day?” 

“Rough day,” agrees Niki, skimming her hands over her hair and twisting it into a bun, stretching out her shoulders with a wince. “Dream’s fever is not going down at all and I’m worried.”

Fundy’s ears wilt at that, and Niki reaches over to scratch at them reflexively, having learned from Will that Fundy didn’t mind so long as it was a close friend that wasn’t infantilizing or dehumanizing him or something awful like that. He offers her a weak grin, and Niki hums.

Jack stretches his legs straight out before him and replies, “It’s not good, all this.” He pauses, then, as if embarrassed by how much of an understatement that was, continues quickly, “I mean, with how bad the fever is. I know Techno said Dream probably wouldn’t... wouldn’t die, but...” 

Fundy exhales sharply and says, “We just have to keep believing he won’t. He didn’t take all of the shit we went through during Manberg just to die now. He can’t.”

Niki bites her lip at that. It’s true - they all dealt with Manberg in their own ways, but in general, it can be said that the people who were considered “Manbergian” all went down some route of self-destruction in an effort to cope with the general existential dread and grief over something long dead. Niki’s solution was to throw herself into her baking like she once threw herself into her swordfighting, a long time ago, alongside a proud, staid girl with clouds of white hair who’s maintained a tight hold on her audience and her combat prowess. Niki and Puffy don’t get to interact as much now as they used to, but Niki remembers with fondness a gathering when they were all younger, and a boy with a mask and a cascade of bronze hair mesmerized by Puffy’s charisma tailing after them the entire day, to the point where Puffy fondly nicknamed him “Duckling”. That kid was the star of the show the gathering the year after, when Niki was fifteen, but when he’d wandered up to Puffy later with unusual timidness and asked if she remembered him, Puffy’d thrown her head back with her laugh and tossed her arm over his shoulders despite being a full foot shorter than him and had never stopped calling him Duckling, and - 

Dream didn’t invite Niki just because Will asked him to.

Even with just the baking, Niki was more preoccupied with giving away than keeping for herself. She’s probably the main reason why George didn’t starve to death holed up in his house practically every day, and she kept most of her friends stocked with at least one loaf of bread at all times. It’s easy to forget things when you’re baking, just like when you’re handling a sword, and Niki’ll be the first to admit she probably poured way too much into her foodstuffs where she should have been spending it on taking care of herself, or trying to build up something to give when Schlatt (or the thing with Schlatt’s golden eyes) came knocking for those fucking taxes.

Fundy’s breath comes out shuddery, and Niki feels her heart break a little when she realizes he’s on the verge of tears. “Oh, no,” she says, distressed, pulling Fundy closer to her by the shoulders. “Don’t cry. He’ll make it. You’re right, he has to make it.”

“He’s stubborn as all hell,” agrees Jack, though his words are probably mostly out of a panicked need to prevent tears from being shed. “Prick could say hello to the old gods and they’d probably boot him right back out. He’ll be fine, Fundy, yeah?”

Fundy nods, looking doubtful.

“Can you at least look like you believe me a little?”

Fundy nods again with a little more verve, and a wobbly smile manages to make its way to Niki’s face in spite of the burgeoning memory of the wreckage Manberg made of all of them.

“I think,” she says firmly, trying to put as much authority into her voice as she can bear, “it will all be okay,” and then, as if she said exactly what she needed to hear, she buries her face into the crook of Fundy’s neck and starts to cry. Fundy immediately starts to cry too, and Jack leans his head to Fundy’s shoulder as he pushes away his glasses and wipes at his face, and Niki hopes with all her fucking might that things will all be okay, because she’ll be damned if this parting shot by Manberg makes a liar out of her.

_ x. callahan _

Callahan scowls down at his monitor. The code may as well be physically snapping at him for how reflexively violent it is; with every attempt to prod it into doing his bidding, it snarls and pushes him further away.

One glance up at the other admins present - Bad with his reading glasses slid all the way down the bridge of his nose as he glares, Sam with his gas mask unclipped and brows furrowed, George haggard and unkempt and scowling - tells him he’s not the only person struggling. It’s got nothing to do with skill, then, since Callahan and Bad are easily the most experienced admins among the four of them; all the same, they’ve never had this much trouble whitelisting or adjusting server security before.

George finally waves the screen away and moans, “This code is, like...  _ angry _ with me. Anyone else having better luck?”

Callahan shakes his head, prodding at the settings one more time just to check; it undoes the last few measures he attempted seemingly out of spite, and he signs as emphatically and pissily as he can,  _ This code  _ fucks _. _

“Language,” sighs Bad with far less alacrity than usual. Adjusting his glasses, he adds, “It’s not usually this bad. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Sam winces; says, “I mean... the last time we all did server maintenance together was back before the whole...” he waves his hand helplessly, “ _ thing _ with Manberg. And the last time once of us whitelisted was even before that. Dream’s been doing the bulk of server adjustments for the past month or so.”

Callahan feels his eyes flit up to meet George’s, and they both look away again quickly. It’s juvenile, but Callahan can’t help the roll of anger and shame that rises in him when he sees George; they haven’t talked properly since the blowout argument they had in the half-ruined central walkway of Manberg, and their interactions are still stilted. 

Bad huffs as he watches them avoid one another’s gaze. “You two...” he begins, then purses his lips and says, “Never mind.”

Sam, remaining glued to his screen, says absentmindedly, “Just tell them, Bad, they have to stop dancing around one another, it’s not good for anyone.”

Callahan rounds on them, signing, aggrieved,  _ We’re not  _ dancing around  _ one another, _ just as George says reproachfully, “Everything’s just fine between us, thanks,” and they both glance at each other then jolt away again.

Bad raises an eyebrow. Callahan winces sheepishly.

“We should be concentrating on trying to get the whitelist through,” George says hurriedly, trying to steer the conversation away from whatever heart-to-heart Bad is pushing for. “Philza will probably be able to help.”

Sam hisses at the screen at his wrist in response. “Good luck with that. Just figured out why it won’t work.”

_ What? Why? _ demands Callahan, leaning over to try to get a glimpse of Sam’s monitor.

“Dream made it so no one could whitelist without his express permission.”

Callahan blinks. Once. Twice.

_ What. _

“What.” Bad and he are apparently on the same braincell today. “That’s - why? Wait, that’s so dumb! The whole point of having admins is so the owner - creator - doesn’t have as much pressure on them!”

George winces, his entire body curling into itself, a hand coming up to scrub at his tired face. “I mean,” he says shamefacedly, with a hint of loathing directed inward, “we  _ were _ kind of busy not attending to our admin duties and getting caught up in Manberg instead...”

Something about the guilt in the rising line of George’s shoulders lowers Callahan’s hackles, and almost on autopilot, he signs back,  _ And I was a bit busy not being here to help out _ , and it comes out way more uncomfortably genuine than he intended, so he’s just sitting there with his heart out in his hands, beating away on display. 

George’s brows raise when he reads what Callahan signed, and they stare at each other again, openly this time, both a little mollified.

“Nothing like self-hatred to bring people back together,” says Sam, distracted, tapping away at the screen. Bad sputters.

Callahan rolls his eyes and breaks the moment, turning back away from George to kick at Sam, and he’d never admit it, but Sam’s right, just a little; Callahan’s still upset - George may have had reason to chastise him, but there was no need to lash out the way he did - but hindsight is twenty-twenty, and at any rate he knows full well he’s not blameless either. It’s hard to keep being angry, hard to keep hating someone who’s just as angry and just as sad and just as unable to comprehend the situation as he is. 

And maybe part of it is some sort of fucked-up intrusive  _ If you don’t forgive George now, who’s to say you’ll ever get the chance? Look at Dream - you never even said goodbye. You want that to happen with another friend? _ No one can tell. Maybe he won’t apologize out of pride, or at least he’ll wait til George caves first, because he always does. 

Still. Just to remind himself: Callahan won’t stay mad. Not about this. Not right now.

Not with Dream sick (maybe dying) one floor down.

_ xi. alyssa _

Alyssa leans against the doorframe, mask pulled up to swerve questions about the slivers taken out of her lips from biting them. It’s early evening, people treading on sock feet around the former (or current, Alyssa’s still unsure which direction people are planning on taking the catastrophe of a country that was L’Manberg or Manberg or whatever they want to call it) White House. Everyone’s sleeping and eating schedules are completely wrecked, though it’s not like Alyssa can say anything considering she’s the same; she woke up just an hour or so ago after pulling an all-nighter next to Sapnap and fussing over the minute fluctuations in Dream’s temperature. 

It’s Ponk and George, now, crouched over beside Dream on the two chairs that fit beside it, George holding up a bucket of water that’s so cold it’s turning his hands pink and Ponk dipping a cloth into it, wringing it out, and dabbing it gingerly over Dream’s face. Ponk’s mask is pulled halfway up, and Alyssa can see the faint glint of tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

Dream shudders, sudden, in the throes of his fever. George shifts away with the bucket clutched to his stomach but Ponk was closer and his cloth accidentally skews the stark white mask -

Alyssa’s heart leaps into her throat and she takes a full step into the room before it registers that Ponk had reared back when he first saw the mask loosen; he dives to re-center it on Dream’s face with a hissed curse and slings the cloth over the rim of the bucket to knot the mask’s ties properly. That done, he and George both utter sighs of relief that sound the way a balloon seeps air, and Ponk returns to cautiously clearing away the sweat on Dream’s flushed face, taking a nearly ridiculous level of care as he runs the cloth around the edge of the mask and smooths away Dream’s hair.

The lump in Alyssa’s throat scorches like an ember; she drops her hand from where it was clenching the doorframe to clasp both of them to her chest, because there’s an indescribable feeling welling up in her lungs, and it hurts like her heart is buckling or bleeding or breaking. 

Trust, the foundation of everything, the server, this home, their family. 

Alyssa swallows down the burn of all the love she stores under her skin and leaves the doorway to join her friends.

_ xii. hbomb _

“I’m getting this awful feeling,” drawls Schlatt with deceptive dryness, tipping his brewing stand back and forth, “that this might not work.”

HBomb can’t help the instinctive scowl that rises to his face in response, but he shoves it down in favor of replying lightly, “Well, if it doesn’t, at least we’re stocking people up with pots. It doesn’t hurt to be overprepared, dude.”

Schlatt shrugs. “Hey, I’m not sayin’ anything. Just... Tommy and, uh... the brothers all said that potions probably weren’t gonna work if they weren’t workin’ already.”

Schlatt’s a pragmatist, and HBomb knows that; still, sometimes, you need a little optimism, and HBomb has to physically restrain himself from saying so snippily to Schlatt. Schlatt must read it in his expression, though, because he pauses in the middle of crushing glistening melon with the flat of his knife and says lowly, “Problem?”

This is absolutely the opposite of what HBomb wants. Fights aren’t gonna do anything right now, and the logical part of his brain screams at him to stand down and just go back to measuring out grams of ghast tears,  _ idiot _ , this is definitely not the time.

His ape brain is the one controlling his mouth, and also the one that says, “Can you just chill out about it, Schlatt? Can you just look on the bright side for a single fucking second?  _ Please?” _

_ Oh, well, fuck me, I guess,  _ he thinks, watching Schlatt’s face go carefully blank.

Schlatt’s response, however, is far from what HBomb expects. He cocks his head and sighs with a force that slumps his shoulders and he admits wryly, “Okay, I probably deserved that. Sorry, H, I’ll lay off. The, uh... the whole ‘possession’ thing made me a little more fatalistic.”

HBomb blinks at Schlatt, completely caught off-guard by the sudden baring of his soul. Schlatt’s never been the type to be fully open about his emotions or his intentions - it’s a miracle he and Wilbur got along so well, Wilbur the perpetual over-sharer to the point where it’s a tossup at any given point whether he’s telling the truth or bullshitting you and Schlatt such a smooth liar that HBomb was actually convinced Schlatt was twenty-seven for a few months before Dream had laughed at him when he’d asked - so this is... particularly out of character.

“What’s the catch?” he asks warily, and Schlatt snorts.

“Nothin’. I know when I’m bein’ an asshole.” He shrugs, scrapes the pulp of the glistening melon into a flask of awkward potion, sets it up onto a brewing stand. With only a touch of irony: “And we could all use a bit of optimism right now, am I right?”

So, a lot more fatalistic than before, actually. HBomb regards Schlatt carefully, the steadiness with which he tips the half-brewed potions to the light to check their color and opacity, the deceptive lightness to his expression, and common decency prompts him into saying, abashed, “No, yeah, me too, I’m sorry. It was messed up of me to take out all that on you.”

Schlatt smirks. “Nah, ‘s all good. I get it.” He sets the bottle back into the stand with a sigh. “‘S rough. All of this. Still not really sure if Dream’s gonna pull through, to be honest. Feels like all of this is just gonna - ” Schlatt pantomimes something imploding with his hands, “ - fall right through, or something.”

“Eggshells,” agrees HBomb sagely, because Schlatt’s right, and there’s a reason he managed to lead HBomb on about his age for literal months. He can see the big picture way better than someone his age probably should be capable of. More seriously, he adds, “Honestly, at this point, all we can do is believe. Maybe if we get into contact with Philza, that’d be one thing, but... Probably not until if -  _ when _ Dream wakes up.” He refuses a scenario on the off side of that  _ if _ . He  _ refuses. _

Schlatt’s got an odd look on his face as he swirls the healing I, weighing a fistful of glowstone powder in his free hand. “Yeah...” he says, sounding as if he’s convincing himself to believe it, “yeah, when Dream wakes up. We can ask him then.”

HBomb bites his tongue, gathers up his finished potions, and makes his way down the stairs without another word.

_ xiii. karl _

“I’m still afraid about Sapnap, sometimes,” says Karl, apropos of nothing. Quackity’s hand stills on his hair.

“Okay?” he says, voice lilting up in question, partly in acknowledgement and partly to prompt, and Karl realizes what that sounded like and immediately backtracks.

“No no no no - not like that, I meant - I’m afraid about Sapnap getting hurt, I mean,” he amends hurriedly, and Quackity’s face doesn’t exactly soften, but the edge does leave his expression, because he knows what it’s like to worry over the third member of their marriage pact. “Just - the things he used to do in Manberg, you know? Like you worried me too, with the whole - ” Karl waves his hand around, narrowly avoiding clipping Quackity’s nose with it, “ - cabinet member thing, but Sapnap kept... doing dumb things.”

Quackity snorts. “Like setting fire to the fucking Manberg flag?”

_ “Yeah,” _ says Karl emphatically, because of all the stupid things Sapnap did while raising hell in Manberg, that might be the stupidest. “What was he thinking? He’s  _ so  _ lucky no one saw him do it, and the flag looked so bad after, the fire only got the orange out of it so it was just a blank black flag - and he could’ve implicated Fundy, if he hadn’t been as good as he was at cleaning up his tracks. And I keep - I wonder, sometimes, if he hadn’t been - like, what if he got caught, and Schlatt knew it was him, or if he hurt himself, or - ” Quackity’s hand lands on Karl’s shoulder, and Karl bites back the rest of the words waterfalling from him with a terse “You know.”

Quackity returns to petting Karl’s hair absentmindedly. “Yeah,” he says slowly, contemplative. “He’d hang out a lot around the White House - trying to check on me, I think. It’s just - ” he crinkles his nose, “ - I feel like he thinks he’s the strongest of us so he wants to always be keeping an eye on us or something, but we’re kinda just left worrying over him.”

“And Manberg.”

“Eh, kinda. Manberg in combination with Sapnap is -  _ was _ just kinda a bad idea.” 

Karl nods vigorously. “Exactly,” he says, and Quackity raises his eyebrows down at him for the obvious fondness in his tone. “Oh, shut up.”

And Quackity teases him a little for it but in two minutes they’re back to where they started: quiet, Quackity running his fingers gently through Karl’s hair, Karl humming thoughtfully.

Neither of them voice the fears they still feel now. They don’t have to; both of them know the biggest concern after Dream is Sapnap, who’ll barely talk to anyone who isn’t Dream lying wordless in his bed by the windows, who can’t look people in the eyes without something in his expression breaking, who might very well shatter into irreparable fragments if Dream dies. 

There’s no Manberg, anymore, or if there is, it’s not the same country that ground its people under its heel. It’s just a cold empty city with cold empty streets, all its citizens departed in order to desperately fuss over the minor god that build this server from bedrock up. In any other situation, it would probably taste like vindication.

Instead, Karl can only feel distant, oncoming dread for Dream, for Sapnap, for everyone lying in pieces on the floor.

_ xiv. ant _

Ant sits on the dock with his legs dangling over the water, head tipped back, eyes on the steadily yellowing sky. The breeze is chilly but nothing his fur and his jacket can’t block out, and as the sunset blazes against the simmering lavender sky, Ant leans back into his hands and very deliberately ceases to think about anything in particular save the bite of the bursts of wind, ignoring the object weighing heavy and iron in his pocket. It’s not until the sun melts down into a pat of butter on the horizon that he pulls out the object and smooths his thumbs over its face.

The compass is well-worn, well-loved, has a chip in the glass from an unpublicized manhunt wherein Ant tripped Dream into a desert temple two minutes in and debris flew everywhere, the housing cracked from a tumble down a ravine. It thrums in Ant’s hands, violet rippling over its surface, tuned in to Dream’s location at all times, a souvenir from his first ever manhunt, wherein Dream encased him in obsidian from a ruined portal two minutes in and he’d had to wait sullenly until George returned, sheepish, with an iron pick and small talk prepared. 

Ant preoccupies himself with the morbid pastime of watching the needle wobble treacherously as it tries to discern whether its target is dead or alive, because it’s better than just sitting cooped up in the White House with all the collective worry and dread of the others conglomerating and re-infecting them all. Ant’s pretty sure everyone’s had at least one panic attack at this point, which is just so fucked up, and he really needed to get out of his own head, so here he is at the docks, just thinking about Dream again.

Of course, as always seems to happen whenever he’d got the compass in hand, Ant’s thoughts turn to manhunt. He passes over the worse memories because he knows they’ll lead him right back to thoughts of Dream and death and the two in conjunction, instead opting for a lighter memory - the aftermath of an unpublicized manhunt that Dream had lost by a hair, getting shot off the bridge of a Nether fortress by a miffed blaze. They’d all played a few innocent rounds of tag to work off the adrenaline - Ant didn’t get it until later, but the others knew from experience that not letting the buzz subside wasn’t good for you, exhibit A, Dream getting so nauseous after a victorious manhunt that he couldn’t even get up for a solid couple hours - and then, as the stars blanketed the night sky, Dream, the world owner, waved the clouds out of the way so that they could sprawl out on the grass and connect constellations. Ant had laid his head on Dream’s stomach and Dream in Sapnap’s lap, Bad and George leaning against one another, their voices waning into quiet reverence, and Ant remembers with crystal clarity the serenity he’d felt, how much like a part of a whole he’d felt.

He wouldn’t trade that for the world.

Then again - Dream dry heaving into George’s shoulder, Dream’s quiet little shudder before losing consciousness, Dream’s head lolling over Technoblade’s arm, Dream dangerously feverish under the roof of the White House - 

Ant might not have a choice.

_ xv. jack _

Eventually, inevitably, someone brings up the abandoned festival grounds that they’ve left like a rotting corpse that everyone just carefully edges around and avoids making direct eye contact with.

Jack surprises himself with how eagerly he offers to take everything down, but as he treks into town with an axe in one hand and a pick in the other, Ponk and Karl and Tubbo and Schlatt, of all people, trailing after him, it comes to him that it shouldn’t be that much of a shock. Manberg beat everyone down mercilessly; he still remembers the look in Ponk’s eyes when Jack had brought him a bruised Sapnap to heal up, right after Sapnap had decided to commit yet another round of casual arson, and that was just physically speaking. Seeing Fundy going grey at the rate he did is something Jack is content with never seeing again, thanks.

Karl leaves them earliest to clear away the remains of the games and prize booths, something forlorn in his face as pulls his axe out and winds up before the dunk tank. Jack turns away in time to catch the beginning of the downswing, listens to the glass shatter and water rush out, and moves on without looking back.

Schlatt peels off after to go pack up the vendors, the colorful streamers that hang off the awnings, the balloons sinking to the ground after days of floating. Jack doesn’t even want to read deeper into Schlatt’s expression - they weren’t close before or after Schlatt went mad, and it’s honestly pretty easy for Jack to shift his quiet rage to a different concept because he didn’t really associate Schlatt’s face with his deeds, but the same can’t be said for Tubbo or Ponk, both of whom got up close and personal; sure enough, they stick with him til they reach the podium.

It should probably feel groundbreaking, or symbolic, or painful. Tubbo cringes when he sees the thing and moves off to take down the seats, chopping them down, and Ponk pulls the vines from the towering build with his jaw set so tight it looks like he might crack his teeth. 

And it is all of those things, a little. Jack can dredge up sorrow over all the pain they’ve all suffered at the hands of Manberg - the isolation, the hurt, the taxes levied on Niki without a thought or the haggardness of Quackity’s face - but what Jack feels first and foremost is a deep, stinging bitterness. It feels like him, and the Manbergians, and the Badlands, and Dream’s cut of the land, and even Schlatt himself - all of them are victims to something greater than themselves that Jack can’t even begin to fucking comprehend because Wilbur and Schlatt have no clue either, or if they do they’re being tight-lipped about it, and Jack couldn’t even blame them. Jack’s never been a fighter - he’s no Tommy, that’s for certain - but he can feel his blood boil when he stares up at the podium, at the blackstone throne looming over them, at the half-deconstructed concrete box - 

So maybe Jack’s a little overly vicious in the vigor with which he slams his pick into the foundations of the pavilion that dominated the Manberg town square. Who’s to blame him? Not Ponk, who watches on with steely eyes; not Tubbo, either, turning away and burying his axe into the pile of wood they’d set aside for kindling later. 

They all hated what the country became. Regardless of whether or not they’re to blame for it, they all know that Manberg will be the black page in the history books, and Jack, for one, is glad that in this, he gets to be the destroyer.

_ xvi. skeppy _

Dinner’s a quiet affair to Skeppy and Bad, for the most part. It’s usually just the two of them, and since they spend a fair bit of time together - more so during that tense, needle’s-edge period of weeks between the election and the festival - their talk is mostly lighthearted, tangential things, seeing as they already know all the big things. 

Not at the White House, and not in the wake of that selfsame festival.

Mealtimes aren’t necessarily loud, but they’re also not exactly quiet, and it’s not communal; people will flit in and out of the kitchen periodically, some for food and some for company, and it’s rarely quiet, even if it’s just a one-word back-and-forth between two people over pumpkin pie at two in the morning. Skeppy knows Bad’s been trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy by keeping a tight three-meal schedule and getting at least two meals into everyone a day, but Skeppy’s internal clock is well and truly fucked, and he’s encountered Schlatt at least once during one of his bleary-eyed eleven-PM cereal-straight-out-of-the-box ventures.

Bad finally gets fed up with it on the fifth day of Dream’s unofficial coma and forces Skeppy to have an actual, sit-down dinner with him, face-to-face, like they normally do. Once Skeppy’s sat with a plate of pork chops and a harried salad, Bad sighs and stabs a leaf with his fork and says, artificially chipper, “So how are things going, Skeppy?”

“I go to bed every early morning fearing news of Dream’s demise,” Skeppy tells him flatly, which is, in all honesty, a lot meaner than intended, but it just makes Bad laugh that exhausted, breathy laugh that always makes Skeppy feel bad, and when Bad looks back up, he’s smoothed his hood back so that his human face is visible again, glasses perched on his nose, fringe forced away from his forehead by a hairband. 

“Okay, it was a badly timed question,” he acquiesces, cutting his pork chop into neat quarters, then eighths. “Just... how are things? Other than the elephant in the room?” When Skeppy hesitates, Bad asks softly, “I see Dream pretty much all day, Skeppy. I know. I get it. But outside of that.”

_ Normalcy, _ thinks Skeppy with something of a start. It’s now Bad tends to deal with a lot of things: by latching onto what feels, at least a little bit, like something normal. Routine comforts Bad in a way that Skeppy never really fully understood but always tried to help with - even back during the leadup to the festival, dinner together was their thing, and Skeppy knew that it meant a lot to Bad to have that. In a way, it was a way for Skeppy to gauge the state Bad was in.

So for Bad to put a plate in front of Skeppy and sit him down opposite him and ask him how his day went - 

Skeppy feels his heart hurt, like a physical ache, like some sort of wound, as he reaches over the table to put his hand on Bad’s shoulder, and he’s never been good at being profound, at making the words go like Bad does, but he says fiercely, “You’ll be okay, we’re all gonna be okay,” and when Bad stiffens and tears up violently, Skeppy figures he didn’t do a bad job at it.

They finish dinner, Bad mostly sniffling into his potatoes and Skeppy patting away the tears with his napkin awkwardly, but as they trudge over to the sink to dunk the dishes (which will end up being cleaned by whoever uses the kitchen at midnight, by unanimous unspoken agreement), Bad catches Skeppy’s wrist and tugs him into a hug and informs him, only moderately watery, “Same for you, Skeppy - everything will be just fine,” and Skeppy feels tears climb up his throat, and really, there’s way too much crying for the dinner to really be considered as therapeutic as Bad probably wanted it to be, but Skeppy feels at least a bit lighter walking out of the mess hall, and so does Bad, if the lightness in his step is anything to go by, so.

_ xvii. wilbur _

Apparently, Schlatt remembers.

Or at least he’s told Wilbur so, and since they go a long time back and considering the whole madness thing, Wilbur’s inclined to believe him. They’ve spent a sleepless night or two playing inane card games that Wilbur taught his younger brothers to play long ago and mulling over what, exactly, happened.

It’s different for each of them. What Wilbur recalls is gauzy, vague, indistinct, as though through a mirror faded out with fog; he gets snippets of emotion - rage, despair, an all-consuming and all-encompassing hatred that he knows just as well as he consciously rejects. He hates to say it, but he’s never been one to lie to himself: it’s him, just dialled up to a million, his worst leanings given shape and given voice, the arrowhead of betrayal that had sunken into him that shitshow of an election night grabbing him by the throat. It’s because of that that he can fill in the gaping holes in his memory from the past month - if (well, when) he gave into a destructive fury, he knows exactly what he would have done and how he would have done it.

Schlatt’s experience is far sharper. He tells Wilbur hesitantly at six in the morning after thirty rounds of slapjack that he remembers being possessed like it were he himself hurting people. Wilbur probably would have guessed, anyway; Schlatt can’t look Tubbo in the eye, flinches away from Fundy, and the only reason he can bring himself to be in the same room as Quackity is because they’ve talked it out already, to some degree. Not to mention the fucking alcoholism, a vice Schlatt wasn’t even consciously giving into. The withdrawal’s  _ bad, _ and Schlatt - probably out of a mix of self-consciousness and self-loathing - won’t go to anyone but Wilbur about it. Wilbur’s held Schlatt’s hand through several migraines and been sat guarding the door as Schlatt rides out the nausea over a toilet seat. 

Schlatt’s well and truly wrecked in his own way, but Wilbur won’t pretend to be all squeaky-clean himself. It’s fucked, is what it is - he can’t remember trying to start a war, can’t remember planning to destroy the nation that destroyed him, can’t remember  _ gaslighting _ the people he loves and who loved him in turn. Tommy acts like it’s all fine and dandy but he’s on eggshells with Wilbur more often than not, and Tubbo has a hard time being around anyone at all that isn’t Tommy or Quackity. Wilbur wasn’t in his right fucking mind, but that doesn’t help the swell of guilt that rises like a tide in his chest every time he swings by to watch George and Sapnap alternately pray and cry over Dream lying still on the single cot by the windows. 

That’s the other thing - the only moment he remembers with perfect clarity between the arrow hitting him squarely between the shoulder blades and the force with which Tommy had hugged him as Dream thrashed in George’s arms is the moment in Pogtopia, the moment Dream had tried to reach him.

Wilbur hasn’t told Schlatt - what would he say? - but it keeps swirling in Wilbur’s head, plays out in Technicolor when he closes his eyes: a glimmer through the void-cold expanse of _ Wilbur Wilbur Wilbur it’s me it’s me _ and Wilbur trying to find his arm, his hand, the tips of his fingers  _ where’s the hurt the poison _ and Wilbur trying to reach back for the gleaming hand in the gloom  _ it’s me listen listen listen _

and Wilbur drowning again under the shrill  **_NO._ **

What makes a hero? What makes a villain? It feels like blaming the madness is too easy. On some level, people must know he was somehow complicit - it was his face, after all, threatening the lives of his younger brothers and making no promises to the country he spilt blood for. He wonders what Dream was thinking when he endorsed Schlatt, what he was thinking when Wilbur - when the  _ madness _ \- when something demanded the TNT and Dream forked it over without a word. 

The whole thing is just so incredibly fucked. Wilbur can’t remember where he starts and the madness ended, when he lost and the madness won. The time past is a loop, Wilbur caught in the middle like a rabbit in a snare, the people once of L’Manberg haunting him or him haunting the people once of L’Manberg. Who can say?

The snare closes and it’s Wilbur on the coals, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Dream dies, because if Dream is lost then Wilbur knows, selfishly, foolishly, that there is nothing that Wilbur can ever do to change what his country became. 

Wilbur won’t be the Helen of Troy of the Dream SMP. He  _ won’t. _

_ xviii. punz _

_ In the seconds before the tip of his sword makes contact with the heave of Dream’s chest, Punz sees several things flash past Dream’s face, fleeting, abandoning his expression in nanoseconds. A surprise, then something more of a shock, then the beginnings of a gut-churning terror that worms its icy way into Punz’s heart the clean and unbroken moment the blade slides past the rungs of Dream’s ribs like a netherite pick through netherrack. _

_ On instinct, Punz drops the sword, and Dream goes sprawling after it like a puppet with snipped strings. He remembers what to do in a spiralling, confused sort of way; it’s a recollection rather than common sense, memory over knowledge, which isn’t the way the events of real life happen - in sequence, time like molasses - but the panic is there, makes his fingers tremble traitorously, and he mumbles expletives as he pours out the contents of his pack onto the ugly maroon grass and has three potions in hand when he turns, and Dream’s eyes are the dull glassy gleam of slain livestock when he meets them. _

_ Punz immediately reels back from the circus horror of the trees soaking scarlet, sky blotting out before a canopy of copper-colored leaves, fog settling in like a fine bloody mist. That’s Punz’s sword buried up to the hilt in Dream’s rapidly reddening chest, identifiable by the golden chain he wraps around the guards of all his weapons, and Dream’s mouth dropped slightly open as though there were something more he wanted to say before the blood loss or the collapsed lungs or the pierced heart killed him.  _

_ Killed him.  _

_ Killed him. _

_ Holy shit, Punz killed him. _

_ Dream’s hand lolls on the ground as Punz scrambles back, gasping for breath, clutching at the neck of his sweatshirt, smearing red all the way down his front. It hardly matters - the only thing Punz can see is the cadaver of one of his closest friends cooling amongst the leaves floating down with comical gentleness, Dream’s tawny hair spilled out like a blood-crusted halo, his hands reaching -  _

_ Did he know, then, in that moment before Punz shoved his fucking sword into Dream’s heart, that he was looking his imminent demise in the eye -  _

_ Was he ready to -  _

_ Was he willing to - _

“Punz!”

Punz jerks awake, flies into a sitting position with a strangled cry, and only after several heart-stopping seconds of white noise does he realize that he’s in a bed in the White House, and Sam, who was bunking with him, has got his arms round him, murmuring, “Punz, it’s Sam, you’re in the White House. It’s Tuesday morning, the sun hasn’t come up yet... You had a nightmare, bud. It was just a nightmare.”

Punz grips the coarse wool of Sam’s t-shirt with a breathless, dry sob, clings on as hard as he can to scorch the feeling of reality into his hands, engrave the feel of Sam’s chin in his hair into his head. 

The morbid, backstabbing part of his brain wonders if it really was  _ just _ a nightmare.

After all, even if it wasn’t by his sword, Dream is still bleeding out in every way that matters.

_ xix. sam _

Sam was almost ten when he first stumbled across Dream and Sapnap. They were a touch young to be world-hopping - most children figure it out around age six or seven, and at that point, Dream was five and Sapnap was two - but Dream was keen and Sapnap was articulate for his age, and honestly, with them having jumped into his home world, Sam wasn’t exactly about to turn down free company. 

Dream already had his mask, by then. Sam never asked and Dream never offered, but Pandas did the talking for both of them; the bits and pieces Sam gathered were enough for him to get some picture of a kid who was paranoid, who was smart because he thought he had to be, who stayed on his toes at all times. Honestly, at the time, Sam had admired him; someone four years younger than him with the skill that he had? It was crucial to all of their survival, especially before Sam decided to accept the open invitation from Bad to join his easy world - Sam remembers a time when Dream had tripped a creeper about to detonate deeper into the ravine they were mining in without so much as a flinch, and wondering what manner of wild child he’d accepted as a friend.

In the present day, staring down into Dream’s face as Dream breathes as shallowly as though each will be his last, all Sam feels is a stir of hollow sorrow, empathy for the kid that thought he had to keep this from all of them. Sam couldn’t speak as to the root of Dream’s secrecy - Sapnap doesn’t seem to know, either, and Sam’s not the type to push - but whatever it was, he encountered it young enough that Sapnap only knew Dream’s face for a few days before the mask became a staple of his wardrobe, and Sam can only imagine how constant vigilance would fuck someone up after keeping it up for so long. 

Carding his fingers through Dream’s hair (it’s getting long, but Dream doesn’t let anyone cut it until he asks, and he can’t ask the way he is right now), Sam thinks that if he could go back and tell Dream anything, it would be this: That he doesn’t have to be afraid of who he is and what he’s capable of. That Sam and Sapnap and everyone, Bad and Ponk and Cal and Lyss and George, none of them would ever blame him or hate him for the power at his fingertips and the face under the mask. That he doesn’t owe any of them distance, or safety, or protection, especially not at the cost of himself.

Honestly, Sam wishes he could just tell Dream now.

If only Dream could hear him.

_ xx. ponk _

It was a long time ago, now.

Ponk was newly eleven, the same age as Dream however briefly, and he’d twisted his left ankle on a mining excursion with George and Alyssa. It was scary in the moment - a second of distraction, a burst of pain in his leg, a tumble down a hole they’d dug out previously accompanied by Alyssa and George’s twin shrieks of surprise - but he bribed them into half-carrying him back to the house and Sam had laughed until he cried as the disgruntled look in Ponk’s eyes and he’d been icing it constantly under threat of death from Bad, and really, it wasn’t so bad.

His mistake was trying to walk on it too early, like a buffoon, and ending up curled into himself on the kitchen floor and trying not to cry.

He’d flinched when he heard someone shuffle in, but it was just Dream, drifting into the kitchen hesitantly with one hand to the wall and the other held out cautiously, feeling out the way, and Ponk had felt his heart sink down to his stomach, curdle in his gut. Sapnap hadn’t been detailed, but from what Ponk had heard the wound on his face was bad enough to scar, and Sapnap, panicked and younger than the rest of them, hadn’t checked if Dream could open his eyes against the injury, so they were all stuck wondering until Dream removed the bandages and the skin healed over well enough for him to do things with his face again. Probably the person suffering the most other than Dream himself was Callahan, unable to properly communicate with Dream for the foreseeable future, but they were all on a knife’s edge at the time, hoping whatever the outcome was that Dream wouldn’t suffer.

It hardly mattered, in that regard, whether or not they were in Bad’s world; even in an easy world, creepers are creepers, and Dream got unlucky that snowy night looking for food and wandering further away than usual.

Pushing aside his imminent breakdown in the interest of making sure Dream didn’t trip over him, Ponk raised his voice and said, “Hi, Dream. Down here.”

Dream paused, cocked his head oddly, unseeing gaze trained somewhere over Ponk’s shoulder, bandages wound round his head and under his mask. “Ponk? What’re you doing on the floor?”

Ponk snorted involuntarily at that. “I tried to walk on the ankle too soon, I fell. D’you mind helping me back to the table?”

“You’ll have to walk me through walking you,” quipped Dream lightheartedly, and sank into a crouch before Ponk, held out his hand in the approximate direction of Ponk’s predicament. Almost deliberately, he added, “You’ll probably feel better after getting weight off of it.”

Ponk rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I rolled my eyes,” he added hurriedly, remembering at the last moment that Dream couldn’t see him doing it, but Dream just laughed and stood them both up with minimal difficulty for someone so recently injured and supported Ponk back to the kitchen table under Ponk’s shaky instructions.

Ponk sighed as he sat back down, the sharp pain in his ankle already dying down into a faint echo of what it was when he’d initially twisted it. “Yeah, way better. Thanks, Dream,” he said warmly, and Dream had flashed a grin at him.

“No prob,” he said, easy, and had shambled away awkwardly, leaning against the counter with his right arm and teetering back down the hall from whence he’d came. Ponk had watched him go, absentmindedly swinging his bad leg back and forth, the hurt far more manageable, and had wondered if Dream’s temporary blindness was the reason why.

He knows better now.

_ xxi. sapnap _

Sapnap’s eyes are constantly puffy, now; he can barely think half the time from the fog of premature grief choking him out, only sleeps in or within thirty blocks of Dream’s room. His heart aches like a physical wound more often than not from the crying, or the fury, or the terror, like the sea level rising slowly and seaming over his head, like the pressure of a deep dive blowing out his eardrums. 

It’s getting worse. Dream would surface sometimes - once earlier on, maybe about a day or so into the fever (and oh, the fever - Ant had said disbelievingly “That’s a  _ hundred and twenty degrees,” _ and Niki had clapped a hand over her mouth and said “That’s not a survivable temperature,” and Techno had said with conviction, “He’s a minor god,” but that last sentiment seems less substantial than ash lately) - but the longer it’s gone on, the less coherent Dream gets. 

It was the worst it’s been that morning. Sapnap had woken up in the oppressive obsidian gloom of morning so early it’s nearly night to Dream’s breath staggering gracelessly in his lungs, gait like a drunkard’s, and when Sapnap had blearily grasped Dream’s lukewarm hand and clenched it in both of his, Dream had mumbled dizzily.  _ That’s _ what woke Sapnap up all the way, made him nearly kick George in the side in shock - he’d leaned in to catch what Dream was saying and what he heard made him almost wish he hadn’t, a slurred string of syllables barely distinguishable from one another - 

_ settle settle settle down into the core like a ship at sea with its hull smashed in are you awake are you calling where where where do you want me to go _

Sapnap ended up startling George awake from how loudly he was crying, and by then Dream had long sunken back into his delirious slumber. 

The words cling to Sapnap now, echo in his ears, the unfathomable hum of a voice half his friend’s and half a god’s haunting him, taunting him. As much as he tries to force his mind away from the implications, the traitorous, macabre corner of his mind wonders if it’s death lulling Dream into its arms, if it’s Dream, lost, searching for the hand that will let him live or condemn him to a place he’ll never return from.

Sapnap molds Dream’s lifeless fingers to his cheek on autopilot, thinking of manhunts won when Dream would laugh and pat Sapnap’s face, or even younger when Dream would sandwich Sapnap’s face in his hands and pep-talk him out of his brief childish miseries, or even younger than that, when they first met in Sapnap’s home world that they both abandoned without looking back - Pandas, then, liking the bamboo forest Dream set up shop in, Dream teaching him to climb, to hunt, to be kind.

Sapnap covers his mouth and whispers through his sleeve, a plea and a prayer and a panic all in one, “Please don’t go.”

_ xxii. purpled _

Purpled scowls as he shifts his feet slightly further apart in the dirt, tips his head, draws the bowstring as far back as it’ll go. Squints one eye shut for perspective, holds, then lets the humming, magic-enhanced arrow fly, following its steady arc with a careful eye.

It bursts into a single pathetic lick of flame before devouring itself, leaving the hull of the UFO unmarred.

Purpled blows out a sigh and adjusts his feet again. It pays to train long-distance combat regularly, especially for Bedwars, but this is less practice than it is taking his frustrations out on an inanimate object, and honestly, his self-awareness might just be making it worse, but when he gets annoyed his aim gets better, so.

He shakes out his arms, nocks an arrow, pulls it back. Purpled’s long moved out of the UFO, his first and perhaps most grandiose build on the server, but there’s both practical and sentimental value in it - it’s where he taught DogChamp to roll over without stopping in the middle, it’s where he taught Jack when he first came to repurpose the husks of fire charges, and it’s where Dream took shelter during his spontaneous unpublicized manhunt that was something more like a lawless game of tag that he used as an excuse to shear down the amount of TNT he was just carrying around. 

The thought of Dream in conjunction with the UFO makes Purpled stop and lower his bow again to stare up at the pod in the sky. 

He fireproofed it. Dream fireproofed it, as thanks for covering for him for an hour during the “manhunt”. There’s little doubt now, not when Jack’s voiced his suspicions that Dream also fireproofed that wonky statue out near the Community House and proved it with a flint and steel. Purpled has plenty of feelings about ending up in Manberg, about being a bystander or a victim or -  _ something _ in the weeks leading up to the festival, but his feelings regarding Dream have somehow remained uncomplicated: an older boy, lighthearted, perhaps a little more than he was letting on but in no way dangerous.

It all still stands, but now Purpled’s added “disgustingly self-sacrificial” to the list with a bitter taste in his mouth. He hates self-sacrifice on principle - it just seems like a shitty thing to do in general, because all it does is hurt - but something empty gapes open in his chest if he thinks too hard about why Dream felt like he had to do it for them, or why Dream chose to do it even though he knew it would fuck him up like this, so he just. Sets the tangled skein of thoughts aside to dissect later (probably never). 

Purpled’s never taken the UFO for granted, though. It might be just a stupid, tiny way of expressing appreciation for it, but he uses the UFO for target practice all the time, makes sure to avoid having milk around it just in case the potion effect doesn’t last if he spills, performs meticulous maintenance on the hull itself so that the UFO remains intact. It feels kind of insignificant at times, but at some point it became comforting in its monotony and its predictable outcome: take aim, shoot, watch the flaming arrow clatter uselessly away. 

It’s getting late - it’s too dreary to gauge exactly what time it is, but considering the sky’s a considerable amount darker than it was at midday, Purpled’s willing to bet it’s at least four thirty, the days getting shorter. If he doesn’t get back early, he’ll probably get a half-joking, half-dead serious lecture from Punz that he’s absolutely not willing to sit through, so he starts to pack his bow away, but there’s an itch in his hands, and the sun must not quite be down all the way yet because there’s a squint of light somewhere down the horizon, and Purpled mutters “Just one more shot,” with a wry smile. 

He rolls his shoulders, sighs, nocks the arrow expertly. The Flame on his bow ripples to life at his fingertips, throwing off sparks, and he can feel a vague warmth at the arrowhead as he pulls the bow back. Takes a deep breath for composure, to keep his arms steady, then lets the arrow fly with a sharp  _ twang. _

Purpled turns away immediately, already knowing the outcome, and he’s shrugging off his sling to tuck the bow into it when sudden, vicious heat blazes to life from behind him, and he whirls, bringing up a fistful of arrows in surprise.

“Oh,” he says, mouth dry, as a wayward tongue of flame licks at the grass under his feet. “Oh.”

The UFO is a raging inferno, the green windows burst open with the vehemence of the searing heat rising up from its belly, fire clawing wildly up toward the slate-grey sky. Flame is a localized enchantment, so it won’t spread into the forest beyond, but it feels like some part of Purpled’s heart shatters when the hull groans and sections begin to collapse sixty blocks down and burst into little flaming fragments. 

Purpled’s gaze drags, almost as if magnetized, to the half-visible shaft of the arrow he’d shot stuck innocently at the join between the hull and the elevator entrance.

Dream fireproofed it.

And now Purpled stands before the UFO, dumbstruck, as it crumples into ash before his eyes.

_ xxiii. fundy _

It’s been a week since the festival. 

Fundy sits at Dream’s bedside, alone. Bad and Sam, Eret and HBomb, a motley crew of parent friends coaxed Sapnap and George from Dream to make them eat something. It’s impossible to say how they managed it, with how inconsolable Sapnap has been, with how withdrawn George has been - all Fundy knows is that he’s got this time to himself, just him and Dream, Fundy and his friend and fiancé and feverish god. 

Fundy’s not sure what to say. What  _ can  _ he say? Every horrible, hurting thing he could’ve hacked up about Manberg, about the presidency, about the state of the nation and the dream that could’ve built up a Rome if it hadn’t been stripped down to its bones, he’s already done to Niki, to Eret, to Jack, to former president Wilbur Soot himself. Ultimately, it’s not Wilbur’s fault. It’s not Schlatt’s, either. That’s what’s so hard about the whole thing - there’s no one person or thing to blame, other than what Schlatt and Wilbur have started, as if subconsciously, calling “the madness”, and that’s a nebulous concept that Fundy can’t punch or swear at.

Fundy feels his tail sweep the floor once.

Gingerly, he reaches over to Dream’s left hand set carefully on his narrowing chest and places his own over it. For a tremulous, torturous second, he watches the twin rings glint cheerily under the torchlight.

The gold washes out under the tears that start to roll down his cheeks, soak into his sleeves, wilt his ears.

“Come back,” he begs. “For us. For all of us.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


And for them

**Author's Note:**

> yo!! don’t be weird about when sam says “the kids” it’s a parent-friend line of thought!! if you’re a parent friend you’ve definitely called your group of friends your kids don’t lie to me
> 
> a note that probably makes the sam and ponk sections maybe a little less confusing: humans in this world are fundamentally different than humans of real life. they’re born mostly autonomous, mostly in the form of relatively articulate toddlers, and begin to age properly once they hit around three years. humans in minecraft are way more geared for solitude than humans of our world are (considering many spend years or even decades alone in their own home worlds without significant impacts on their mental health) and while social, even extroverts rarely feel an urge to actively seek human company out. just some context ^^
> 
> by the way. by the way! i’m setting up a discord server! for young god thoughts. i’ll put updates/snippets in there periodically, and i can answer questions as well! my friend ame recommended i start one, and i think it’s a good idea - there’s a lot to young god yet unexplored that’ll be revealed more in-depth through the sequel and atlas, and i think it’d just be,, a lot of fun ^^ here’s the link! https://discord.gg/ZQn5KPDCMq

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [want the flame without the burning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29227077) by [Marianne_Dashwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marianne_Dashwood/pseuds/Marianne_Dashwood)




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